


Jump Then Fall

by allylikethecat



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-24 00:43:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7486686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allylikethecat/pseuds/allylikethecat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tyler wasn't sure what to think when his agent first brought up getting dinner with David Pastrnak while he was in Prague.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jump Then Fall

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own any of these characters/people, nothing that happens in this is real, it’s all fake. Additionally, I have never been to the Czech Republic, so hopefully wikipedia didn't lead me too astray. 
> 
> This fic is also unbetaed, so it's most likely a little rough, for which I apologize. All mistakes are my own. I've been having a lot of feeling about the idea of Tyler and Pasta, and this was the result. If anyone finds any huge mistakes please let me know!
> 
> Big thank you to talkingraccoon whose excitement when I mentioned this idea inspired me to write it, and share it! 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoy this fic!

July.

Tyler wasn't sure what to think when his agent first brought up getting dinner with David Pastrnak while he was in Prague. Tyler knew all about the kid, having spent more time than he cared to admit Googling him, reading about his replacement. There was article after article published, detailing why David Pastrnak was a better Bruin than Tyler Seguin ever was. He was secure enough in himself to say that he was jealous, Don Sweeney having said under no circumstances was Pastrnak on a the table for a trade. Peter Chiarelli had no such qualms about trading Tyler, and he was still bitter and angry about it. Even if the Stars were steadily becoming his new home. Boston had just been first, and for all the travelling Tyler did he didn’t react well to change. 

His agent had explained that Pastrnak admired Tyler, wanted to meet the man he was constantly compared to in the Boston media, as someone so young with so much potential. Tyler had no problem admitting that information had served to inflate his already swollen ego. He agreed to dinner, at some restaurant Pastrnak had recommended in the Old Town Square.

Tyler made his way from his hotel to the restaurant, with a crudely drawn map on a sheet of hotel stationary he had gotten from the concierge, serving as his guide. He second-guessed his every turn, wondering if he was making a huge mistake. He looked down at his clothes, his light gray jeans, black tee shirt and white canvas sneakers. He wondered if he was dressed appropriately. He took a wrong turn. The concierge had said if he hit the Charles Bridge he had gone too far. He turned around, back tracking towards the hotel. Pastrnak had just turned twenty years old. Tyler assumed anywhere he chose for dinner would be low key. His tee shirt should be fine. 

He went too far in the other direction and groaned finding himself back in front of his hotel. He looked back at his map, and debated calling a cab. Pride won out, he was going to find this restaurant. A new determination settled into his bones and once again he was off, double, and triple checking the slip of paper every time he reached a cross roads; the edges softened with the sweat from his palms. He looked up and smiled. He had found it. 

He pushed open the door, admiring the glasswork of the windows. It reminded him of what he wanted to do with the house he had just bought in Toronto. He shoved the stationary map into his back pocket, looking down at his tee shirt as he completed the action. Tyler felt very young as the hostess pointed him towards the bar where Pastrnak was waiting. He had on dark gray jeans, a white tee shirt and a light green jacket, a white Red Sox hat on backwards, hiding his shorn short blonde hair. Tyler felt better about his own attire. 

"Mr. Seguin," chirped Pastrnak when he saw Tyler approach. There was a half empty bottle of some type of Czech beer in his hand, condensation running down the side. He switched the bottle from his right to left hand and held the right palm out for Tyler to shake. His fingers were cool and damp from the bottle, his handshake firmer than Tyler was expecting, his permanent smile painted across his features. 

Tyler suddenly felt very old, a sharp contrast to the childlike nervousness he had felt when he entered the restaurant. He pulled a smile onto his face. The fake one he reserved for the media after a bad game, the one he wore when he swore they would try harder next time, that next time they would be better, next time he would be better. He wondered if Pastrnak had ever been anything other than sincere with the media. Maybe the language barrier was what brought forward the vulnerability and forgiveness for mistakes that Tyler had never been granted. 

"Just Tyler is fine," Tyler corrected, keeping his tone light, trying to mask the uneasiness he felt. He wondered what Pastrnak would do if he turned to the bartender and knocked back shot after shot, numbing himself to the situation. Tyler mentally shook his head. He didn't do that anymore. 

"Should call Pasta," Pastrnak- Pasta, said with a nod. "Beer?" He asked, turning to the bartender and ordering in rapid fire Czech before Tyler could even answer. A moment later Pasta handed him a bottle, the label containing characters that Tyler recognized as accented Czech. He took a tentative sip, not sure what to expect but pleased to find it was a crisp pale lager. Tyler must have made a noise of approval because Pasta's smile grew. 

The hostess returned a moment later, and directed the pair to a table on the patio. Pasta was chatting cheerfully with the hostess, she laughed when she handed them their menus, amused by the younger's antics. No one had ever had a bad thing to say about David Pastrnak. 

Tyler's heart sunk when he looked at the menu. It was all in Czech. He vaguely recognized one of the dishes, he was pretty sure it was some type of stew he had when he was in Prague for the World Hockey Championship. It wasn't really what he was in the mood for, but he figured it was better to order something he had a general idea of, then to pick something he couldn't pronounce at random. He wasn't emotionally strong enough to ask Pasta for help with the menu and the younger man didn't offer, lost in his own thoughts, biting his lip. Objectively, Tyler noticed that in the light he was almost pretty. 

Pasta continued to be uncharacteristically quiet as they looked over the menus. Tyler wanted to break the silence but he didn't know what to say. He wondered if he was doing something wrong, but Pasta was smiling so he couldn't have been doing too poorly. Tyler went to take a sip of his beer and found the bottle empty. He hardly remembered drinking it, moving on autopilot as he tried to quell his nerves. 

Their waitress came and Tyler ordered his meal clumsily, along with another beer. Pasta giggled at his pronunciation and the ice was broken. 

"How Dallas you like?" Pasta asked, and then scrunched up his face in annoyance, "How you like Dallas?" He tried again, this time smiling after he spoke. "Sorry, I not much speak English, in home."

"Don't apologize," Tyler said before answering his question, Tyler hated how European players felt like they had to apologize for not speaking English. Tyler though of Zee, and how even though they had their differences, Zee's focus on inclusion had led to a mostly healthy locker room atmosphere, the Captain having known the feeling of coming to a new country and not speaking a lick of English. "And Dallas is good, really different, but it gets better everyday," Tyler said, finding himself being more honest than he meant to be. 

Pasta nodded, "and how," he paused trying to think of the word before giving up "leg cut?" 

Tyler smiled for real at the earnest expression Pasta was wearing. It was cute and incredibly endearing. 

"It's good, all better now, the surgery and then just not pushing the recovery really helped." Tyler paused before continuing. "You broke your foot in the fall right? How did that go?"

Pasta frowned for a moment before the smile came back. "Broke foot not fun, lonely, but team real good, remind me we family, and it better." He said with a nod. 

Tyler thought about what he had read, the entire team having pretty much adopted their Czech teenager. Even Tuukka had nice things to say about him, and Tuukka didn't have nice things to say about anyone. Tyler had felt almost completely alone in Boston, not sure how to connect with the people around him. There had been Brad Marchand but their friendship hadn't been the healthiest for either party involved. 

"Krejci good, lucky we get to play with each other," Pasta added, and Tyler nodded, remembering that David Krejci had been Pasta's childhood hero. Tyler would admit that if was pretty special that they now often played on the same line. 

"He's a good guy," Tyler agreed, trying to find something else to say but feeling like the words were slipping through his fingers, too fast and too far away for him to do anything about. He was spared from having to force anymore-uneasy small talk by their food arriving.

Tyler had been correct, whatever he had managed to order was some kind if stew. He looked over at Pasta's plate that held some kind of sliced meat and steamed veggies. He also had bread. Tyler looked down at his own plate. He wanted bread. He took a spoonful of his stew, blowing on it so that he wouldn't burn his mouth and decided to investigate the room service bread options later when he went back to his room. 

The stew wasn't bad, better than he remembered it being. He swallowed and followed it with a drag from the fresh beer the waitress had brought him with their food. 

As they ate, Pasta began to chatter, asking questions in his heavily accented English, but not waiting for a response before diving into the next topic. Tyler wondered if he had ever been that young, if he ever had that much energy. Tyler interjected occasionally, with a comment about Dallas, or another player’s style. They talked about their dogs, Tyler pulling out pictures of Marshall and Cash, prompting Pasta to show him pictures of Apple.

Tyler brought himself to ask if certain places were still open in the city, and if Pasta had tried them yet in his two years there. This launched an almost poetic recount of the first time the team took Pasta to Mike's Pastry and how the chocolate chip cannoli had changed his life. 

His story about the cannoli transitioned into one about the New England Aquarium and how it was the one place he hadn't been yet, and how no one would go with him.

Tyler thought about being nineteen and day drunk, sipping from mini bottles hidden in the depths of his winter coat, chasing after Marchy as they wound up the steel grated walkway. Staring transfixed as the fish swam through the large center ocean tank. Pasta wasn't having experiences like that in Boston. Part of it made Tyler sad, but the other part was envious. It was clear that Pasta had someone, multiple someones; guiding him in the right direction while Tyler himself had been left to flounder. They learned from their mistakes, Tyler thought ruefully. He found himself speaking, his words coming faster than his thoughts.

"Maybe I'll come up to Boston before camp," The words slipped from Tyler's mouth before he could stop them. He felt warm and slated, the beer and food loosening his lips. "If you’re back maybe we can go check out the aquarium, I want to see if that fish with the bite taken out of it is still there." 

Pasta's smile grew, it was almost blinding. Somewhere in a corner of his brain labeled thing he didn't thing about, Tyler knew he was in trouble. 

"That would be good, Tyler best," Pasta said. Something that Tyler knew better than to label lust clouding his eyes. 

Tyler best, he liked the way that sounded. Like the way it sounded as it left Pasta's red lips even more. A mischievous glint appeared in Pasta's eyes, pushing away whatever had been present before, his smile curling into a smirk.

"We decide which penguin Crosby, which penguin Malkin. We choose smallest, saddest penguin for Crosby," Pasta said, his tone serious.

Tyler found himself full out laughing, the sound clawing its way from his chest in a bubble of butterflies. Even Pasta's attempts at cruelty were somehow adorable. Tyler froze, the sound becoming chocked off when the waitress appeared to clear their empty plates and bringing them each a shot of Czech dessert liquor and the check. Tyler was screwed. 

He fumbled with his wallet, trying to dig it out of his pocket, his fingers felt heavy and clumsy. By that time he had pulled it out Pasta had already given the woman his credit card. He picked up the shot glass and waited for Tyler to do the same. 

"Treat, and new friendship," Pasta said, and tossing the shot back, leaving Tyler scrambling to do the same. The liquid burned as it ran down his throat and Tyler resisted the urge to cough. Eastern Europeans and booze was something that he was never going to be able to compete with. 

Pasta signed the credit card slip and smiled, before biting his lower lip. He looked like the cat that caught the canary. Tyler abstractly wondered if he was the bird. 

He stood up and Tyler followed. He swallowed hard and wondered if he was reading the situation correctly. Anticipation hummed under his skin. He paused, delaying, trying to calm the buzz that was crawling through his body.

He clumsily asked the hostess if she would mind taking their picture. Pasta laughed and translated Tyler's sloppy English to polished Czech. The hostess nodded and took Tyler's phone from his sweaty fingers. He posed with Pasta, his palm splayed lighting against his spine. The younger man's hand dipped lower, settling on the unimpressive curve of Tyler's ass. He swallowed hard and smiled, he knew he looked awkward but electricity was vibrating through his flesh. Settling into heavy butterflies in his stomach as he was overcome with pure want. 

He took his phone back from the waitress and quickly cropped it and posted it to Instagram. Smiling as Pasta's phone buzzed with the notification that he had been tagged. Pasta grabbed his wrist and tugged him outside, his slim pale fingers a sharp contrast to the swirls of dark ink that decorated Tyler's arms. 

Pasta brought him into a small side street of the beaten path, maybe it was even an ally way. He pushed Tyler against the side of a building. Rationally, Tyler knew he was bigger, stronger and older, but Pasta easily manhandled him, pinning him against the bricks so that they dug into his lower back. He moaned as Pasta licked heavily into his mouth, breaking off into a whimper when he ground their denim-clad hips together. 

Pasta looked up at him through his lashes, careful to keep Tyler's hands immobile above his head. 

"Okay? Good?" Pasta asked licking his swollen lips; they seemed even more impossibly red. Tyler nodded; he felt light headed and non-verbal with want. He was slipping into pure bliss as he was presented with something he hadn't even truly realized he wanted. 

Then Pasta was kissing him again, dipping low to mouth at Tyler's neck and jaw. No part of Tyler was surprised to find that Pasta was pushy and used to getting what he wanted. 

Pasta pulled away, separating their forms and Tyler found himself whimpering, wiggling his hips involuntarily, when Pasta took a step back, breaking their contact, letting Tyler's hands drop back down to his sides. He flushed, suddenly becoming aware that those sounds were coming from his throat. 

"Hotel?" Pasta asked and Tyler's brain came back online. They were in an ally way in Prague. They should move to somewhere more private before they continued. If Pasta wanted to continue. Tyler hoped he wanted to continue.

Tyler forced the name of the hotel from his lips. Pasta's face lit up with recognition and Tyler was grateful. He had no idea how to find it again, especially in his current frame of mind. A steady loop of want, want, want, pulsing through his brain. Pasta wrapped his fingers around his wrist, leading him back down the ally and onto the main drag. Tyler felt disheveled, like he had a giant neon sign over his head proclaiming what he had done, and what he had considered doing in the ally way. The shame only served to strengthen the electric hum, sparks flying where Pasta's skin met his own. 

Later, Tyler sat up in bed, Pasta sound asleep with his back flush to Tyler's chest. Their roles reversed, Pasta giving up the control he had imposed upon Tyler, letting himself be held. Blankets pooled around their bare bodies, protecting modesty Tyler didn't usually have. 

Their clothes were strewn across the room, Tyler was pretty sure he had knocked Pasta's hat off in the hallway. He felt vaguely guilty, and like he had taken advantage, being the elder of the two. It was a feeling that Tyler wasn't familiar with. But then he remembered the way Pasta had slammed him against the building in the ally, and the way he had help his hands pinned the entire time, forcing Tyler to surrender complete control. He wondered if this is what Pasta had planned from the start when he reached out about dinner. 

He ran his thumb over the carefully inked lines of the tattoo Pasta had on his chest. Before curling them around the purple-red bite he has left along the lower edge. He read the English script that marked the Czech boy and smiled. "Because I love it" was so purely Pasta. Tyler was starting to see that he threw himself completely into everything he did; he shivered thinking of the scrape of Pasta's teeth against his delicate, sensitive skin. 

Tyler knew he should get up; he should uncurl their bodies and take a shower. He should head down to the gym and sweat out the calories from the beer he had drank with dinner. Push the hum that pulsed under his skin into the back of his mind. Working his body until he killed the swirling butterflies. He should delete the picture he posted at the restaurant from Instagram. He should delete Pasta's number from his phone. The younger man should stay away. Tyler knew his role in the NHL narrative and it wasn't something someone so pure, someone so young should get involved with.

Pasta snuffled in his sleep, turning so that he could bury is face into Tyler's breast. His breath hot against Tyler’s abused nipple. He didn't do any of those things. He ran his fingers through Pasta's sweaty gold hair, and shifted his weight into a position more comfortable for sleeping. He had said he would take Pasta to the aquarium, and for all his flaws, Tyler always kept his word.


End file.
